(What will we do now, Quincy, Sam & Crew?)
The thief sneaks out at night and leaves the girl
to fix the gol-darn mess. She makes the best
of it and saves the day until the swirl
of sharks, those dead-eyed dicks, blame her; the rest
is his-tor-ee. They covered up his deeds,
his alcoholic sprees, the loss of coins,
then fired her without reason, planted seeds
for further lies and hired a dude, purloins
the purse at their behest, and spreads it thick
while elegantly she moves on and starts
her own, a conference worth its salt, a kick
out by the sea. The poser crapped his farts.
When he resigned, they found another beau
who loves “free verse”; please say it isn’t so.